A Fine Affair
by AureliaScott
Summary: We all know how Draco treats his inferiors, but what happens when he meets someone even he must consider an equal? complete
1. You Have to Understand

You Have to Understand  
  
Disclaimer: Any characters you recognize are not mine. Oh, but if Draco were mine .  
  
As Draco rounded the corner, goons in tow, he should have heard the tapping of heels on the stone corridor floor. He should have noticed that the hallway was not empty, and in fact that its only occupant was only inches away from the intersection he too was about to penetrate. But Draco, too involved in his own thoughts, didn't notice any of this, and ran right into her.  
  
A black-haired girl he should have known stepped hastily away from him, sweeping her robes out of the range of his impending fall. And fall Draco did, hard, on the stone floor. Crabbe reached out a hand to help him up, but he slapped it away. "Watch where you're going next time," he growled at her even before he was up enough to look her in the eye. She sniffed and raised her eyebrows at him, incredulously, before swirling and swishing away.  
  
"Ravenclaw," Goyle grunted.  
  
"Stupid," Crabbe agreed. "Bad."  
  
"If she's a Ravenclaw, she's none of the above. D'you know her, Goyle?" Without waiting for an answer - which he knew would not come - Draco dusted off the knees of his uniform and continued down the hall. Only once his thugs were safely in place behind him did he look back over his shoulder at her. And had he not been in such a hurry, he would have seen her do the same.  
  
Back in the Slytherin common room, Draco pulled his cloak off his shoulders with an audible flounce and shook the snow off into the fire. He ran his fingers through his windblown hair and sat down in his favorite green armchair. Crabbe and Goyle took the couch facing him and sat in silence.  
  
"A bit late to be practicing Quidditch, isn't it, Malfoy?" The head of Slytherin House, Severus Snape, loomed over the boys from behind Draco's chair. A harsh man with black hair, eyes, and robes, Snape knew everything about everything that went on with his young charges. He and Draco's father went way back to their days in this very house, yet where Snape had returned to teach, Lucius preferred a governorship in the Ministry of Magic. Some of his father's friends questioned Snape's loyalty to their cause, but he still bore the Dark Mark - Draco had seen it for himself - and this, for Draco, erased any doubts.  
  
He turned in his chair to face his head of house. "Big game next week. It's got to be perfect."  
  
"Ah," Snape hissed, nodding sagely. "And this gives you cause to be outside past curfew? You are not a first-year, Malfoy; you're in your sixth year. I cannot condone such behavior, even from members of my own house. Detention for all three of you. Malfoy, yours will be served with me." With a crooked smile, Snape flourished away. "See you at three o'clock, lads."  
  
Draco rolled his eyes as he watched Snape climb the stairs to his private quarters. Silently, he retreated to his own bedroom, and after a moment or two, when they realized he'd gone, Crabbe and Goyle followed too. 


	2. The Way I Am

The Way I Am  
  
"Damn that blasted Flitwick," Draco muttered to Crabbe and Goyle. "He made those lessons harder today so we won't have time to practice and his house can win on Saturday." The goons grunted in agreement. "If I didn't have detention with Snape, I'd call my father and ." He trailed off. They weren't really listening, and not even he believed his own words. What would Lucius do, after all, besides tell him he was whining? Draco sighed and turned down the stairs to Snape's classroom in the dungeons. "Well, where are you going?" he snapped at the thugs. "Go see Flitwick. It's the only way you're going to get through those lessons without me ."  
  
The dungeons were particularly cold this autumn afternoon. Per usual, they were dark, with an eerie green glow from the torches. Draco was comfortable here, though, in the silence amongst the spiders and darkness. What others considered "creepy" was to him familiar, like a family dog or fireplace. After several minutes, he noticed how slowly he was moving; he started walking more quickly, throwing in the cocky bounce as he drew close enough to hear Snape rattling about. He could feel his cloak fill the doorway as he entered the classroom.  
  
"Malfoy." Snape's voice was harsh and disinterested. He didn't even turn to look at him. Had it been anyone else, Draco would have protested, but a professor - a Death Eater, and one of his father's friends - was not someone to question. He was, after all, already here for a detention. "What would happen if I added asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"  
  
"A sleeping potion?" Draco offered. "But it sounds too complicated to be -"  
  
"Draught of the Living Death," Snape corrected, stirring a dark blue potion. "That was an easy one, Malfoy: I expect better. What is the purpose of erumpent fluid?"  
  
"Explosions, of course," Draco replied, a self-important smile overtaking his face.  
  
"Of course. You'll be peeling Abyssinian shrivelfig for me, Malfoy. Over there." Snape waved vaguely at a burlap bag on a table. He handed the boy a knife and went back to whatever he was doing at his laboratory counter.  
  
Draco took a seat at the table, purposely turning his own back to Snape. It would be easier to let his mind wander if there was no one to distract him. The knife Snape had given him had a wooden handle. Simple, almost Muggle- like it was, and curiously comfortable to hold. Snape must have enchanted it to relieve the drudgery of shrivelfig peeling: Draco was surprised that he had forgotten to remove such an enchantment before using it as a punishment. He chose a fig from the bag, a dark purple one that must have been a very handsome date, and began his work.  
  
"Carefully now," Snape growled. "Any bit of peel will ruin the potion."  
  
"What a shame that would be," Draco said, under his breath.  
  
"I heard that, Malfoy."  
  
Draco sighed. Even if he was one of his father's friends . if you could say Lucius had friends. The old man was viciously cruel to everyone around him, and his only son was no exception. I remember watching him beat one of the house elves. The little monster deserved it - serving us cold tea! - but Lucius was unrelenting. Growing up in the Malfoy household was a lesson in obedience and irrational coldness, and Draco had learned well. If he hadn't . well, he simply wouldn't be alive. There was no question about that.  
  
The knife slipped and cut his finger. What'll that do to Snape's precious potion? was his first thought. The wound was bleeding, dripping crimson down his finger, past his knuckle, pooling in his palm, running between the mounts of Venus and the Moon to his wrist. I've done quite a good job with it, he thought, peering at the cut itself, which was rather more like an opening of flesh. With his right hand he found his wand within his robes.  
  
"Abracadabra," he muttered. A gentle glow illuminated the parted skin and reconnected the flaps. He walked himself over to the sink and washed his hands, rinsing the pinkish water away. What a nonevent. You'd think a knife charmed to be easy to hold would also be charmed not to cut skin. Then again, maybe Snape never slips. It still stung, though, despite his healing charm.  
  
"I have a potion of phoenix tears that's much more thorough," Snape said, his back still turned. "Next time that happens."  
  
Choosing not to acknowledge that comment, Draco returned to his work. The figs were remarkably cooperative, much more so that he remembered, and it was relatively quick work. He wondered how Crabbe and Goyle were making out with Flitwick: then again, he didn't really care.  
  
There was a swish and a tapping of heels that didn't much sound like Snape. Draco looked up: standing in the doorway was the girl he'd nearly knocked down the nigh before. He wondered if she recognized him.  
  
"Severus," she said, entering. Snape set down the phials he was mixing and met her in the middle of the room.  
  
"Ophelia." Snape took her proffered hand and pressed it. She looked around the dungeon-like classroom, her eyes narrowing when they fell upon Draco. She recognized him.  
  
"I mean, Professor." She returned her full attention to Snape. "I've been trying to find a unique disarming charm for days. Do you have a moment?"  
  
"Of course," Snape said. "I know just the one to teach you." His voice was so much gentler with her, this Ophelia, than Draco had ever heard it before. He took the girl's cloak and hung it on an iron hook in the wall. "We'll go to my office. Draco, you are excused."  
  
Draco? How often did he get called that? Without another word, he gathered up his things and left the particularly suspicious pair alone. Fortunately, he too had the chance to be alone: Crabbe and Goyle still had another two hours left with Flitwick. 


	3. A Tiger is a Tiger

A Tiger is a Tiger  
  
"Malfoy," Pucey called across the Slytherin common room. Draco turned to look at his housemate, standing his ground against the bigger boy. "How'd you get out of detention with Snape?"  
  
Draco was relieved not to be challenged by anyone: he was really mush better at blocking than disarming in duels, and without Crabbe and Goyle his case was hopeless in a fisticuffs. For an instant, he considered telling Pucey that he'd escaped by virtue of his own magical prowess, but suddenly the truth was much appealing.  
  
"Some girl came in: a Ravenclaw. Snape dismissed me and took her to his office. Who knows what they're doing now." A young boy's imagination is far more powerful any lie Draco could have concocted. He decided to leave Pucey thinking in the common room and walked himself up to his bedroom.  
  
The room he shared with his thugs was handsomely decorated, thanks to his father. After all, no outward show of wealth was too much for Lucius Malfoy's only son - no matter how he was treated in private. The room was dark, with only a green lamp glowing in one corner. The windows were hung with drapes in Slytherin colors, and all three beds matched. Draco pulled the curtain that separated his half of the room from theirs and hung his academic robes on his bedpost. He sat on his bed and gazed out the window: Quidditch practice would be right after dinner, and that was a still an hour and a half away. The Gryffindors were already flying about, their reddish robes fluttering behind them as they maneuvered around the bludgers. He could see Harry Potter chasing after the golden snitch: that boy was impossible to miss, even all the way from the castle.  
  
Draco shook his head and turned away. What use was it to ponder Potter any further? Lucius was hard at work taking care of that little problem, driven on forever by his Dark Mark. The boy pulled the sleeve of his sweater up to his elbow: he would never understand how could Lucius have marred himself with the Mark. Looking at the spot on his own flesh where the Mark would be soon enough, Draco was starting to feel ill. His arm was a pure white. It seemed almost . evil to do that to himself. But what Lucius wants, Lucius gets.  
  
He lay down on the bed. He knew he should have been doing work, but this was all he really wanted to do: stare up at the ceiling and think, taking full advantage of the rare quiet. The image of the Ravenclaw came into his mind. Ophelia, Snape had called her, and he had touched her hand. Draco couldn't remember Snape touching anyone. Well, that wasn't quite true. Snape had picked him up and thrown him about more than once. But he had touched Ophelia's hand gently, almost affectionately. Perhaps the ideas he had planted in Pucey's mind hadn't been too far off .  
  
Draco awoke with a start. Had he really just fallen asleep? He checked his pocket watch: ten minutes till dinner. Good thing he'd woken when he did. Snape would have been furious if Draco hadn't shown up for dinner. Hastily, Draco undressed, managing to catch a glimpse of himself in the mirror. Scars crisscrossed his back, long since healed. He'd been away from home for a while, and his body was therefore graciously free of bruises. He pulled on his Quidditch uniform: beige pants, green sweater, grieves, gauntlets, and green cloak. He thought even to grab his Nimbus 2006 - the latest model.  
  
Draco swung open the door to the great hall as if he owned it, and strode to his usual seat as if there were no doubt to whom it belonged. Crabbe and Goyle were already there, and he sat between them. Though they made him more attractive in comparison, their companionship waxed old and draining at best. He glared at them in a rare, unchecked display of emotion.  
  
"Something the matter?" Crabbe said, through a mouthful of dinner.  
  
"Shut your mouth when you're chewing," Draco snapped, ignoring the question. This was neither the time nor place to discuss emotions. Even it if were, Draco surely wouldn't be sharing them with these two idiots. Frightening, really, that they would soon be able to do magic entirely on their own.  
  
As Draco ate dinner, all but ignoring his companions, he kept an eye on the Ravenclaw table. Snape was at the head table, so he was sure their tryst was over. Ophelia - whoever she was - must be there.  
  
He didn't have to look for long. As dessert was being served, a feminine voice sounded behind him.  
  
"Draco Malfoy." The voice could have been that of his head of house for the coldness that echoed in it. He turned on the bench, his eyes meeting those of the mysterious Ophelia. "You are he, aren't you?"  
  
He stood to look her in the eye. The goons started to rise as well, but Draco stopped them with a hand on their shoulders. "Who wants to know?"  
  
She was still dressed as if she'd just come from class, her robes all around her and her blue-and-bronze trim in striking contrast to the black - black robes, black hair, black eyes. She was only slightly shorter than he, and the rage in her eyes and the wand in her hand worried him.  
  
"I hear you've been spreading rumors about me, Malfoy." Pucey must have told someone what Draco had mentioned in passing. "If I hear another ill word spoken about Snape and myself, I'll castrate you."  
  
With a flick of her wand, Ophelia overturned his dessert plate, ruining his pumpkin pie, and stormed off.  
  
"Pansy!" Draco hissed across the table, cleaning up the mess with a quiet charm or two. "Who was that?"  
  
"Who, that Ravenclaw bitch?" Pansy Parkinson sniffed. "Ophelia Briarwood."  
  
"Of the Inverness Briarwoods?" Draco said, more to himself than anything. They were a pureblood family at least as old as his own. Draco looked around the Slytherin table: it seemed that anyone who had noticed their argument had forgotten about it. His dessert ruined, Draco swept away to the Quidditch pitch without calling his thugs along. 


	4. Not a Lamb

Not a Lamb  
  
Draco, captain of the Slytherin team, had painstakingly copied the latest flight patterns of the Chudley Cannons and taught them to his teammates. It had not been an easy task, since they were chosen based on size rather than skill, but all his effort was worth it. If they didn't win this weekend's game, they would not get to move on to play Gryffindor the week after. And nothing was more important than beating Gryffindor.  
  
He worked his teammates until he was sore, until his broom was an instrument of torture, and let them go only when Snape came out to remove the pitch lighting spell. Had he thought he'd be able to find the snitch in the night, he would have had them stay even then. Panting, and with a sheen of sweat on his face, Draco found his way to his room. He ignored his goons, stripped, and hopped in the shower.  
  
The warm water soothed his sore muscles and ran brown with mud and sweat. HeHeHIt was easy to forget why he went to such lengths. It was not to beat Gryffindor per se, nor even to beat Harry Potter. The only thing that was worthwhile was the result of winning: Lucius' favor. Whenever his father saw him fall, Lucius would shake his head and tell Draco to get back on his broom. And Lucius would wonder why he had been cursed with such an incompetent boy for a son, and he would make sure that Draco knew exactly what he thought.  
  
The only option, therefore, was not to fall.  
  
As he scrubbed his scarred back, Draco began to turn his thoughts around. It was not right for him to think such things about his father: Lucius was only trying to make sure that his son lived up to the high standards of a pureblood wizard, not to mention the names of Slytherin and Malfoy. Even the Dark Mark was an emblem of purity, and Draco was being ungrateful by fearing it so.  
  
Codswallop. Not even Draco really believed what he was thinking - what he was saying out loud by now - but he would die a traitor before anyone knew that.  
  
He turned off the water and stepped out. He reached out for his wand: "Seco," he mumbled, and was instantly dried. He pulled on his pajamas, the ones with the Slytherin coat of arms embroidered on it, and went into the bedroom. The thugs were playing wizard chess, and poorly, too, and Draco climbed into bed with his favorite book, Sonnets of a Sorcerer, setting the bookmark of pressed flowers aside on his pillow. It was written by a mudblood, but on the whole it was remarkably decent. He usually kept it under an invisibility charm, just in case someone should find their way into his room.  
  
The nights are long without you, most beloved, And wither I away in the cold light Of dying wand and ancient spell above. The evening's morning waits, a teasing blight, That kills me with its broken promises And whispered words of adoration dear .  
  
Some he had read so often that they were more a part of him than of the book, but this one he usually avoided. He knew more than a few girls who read those lines most feelingly, imagining him to be that beloved. Oh, he'd seen the way the other Slytherins looked at him, even girls from other houses; the way Pansy looked when he'd catch her eye - even that very night at dinner, when he'd asked her about Ophelia.  
  
She offered to castrate me, he thought to himself. I bet she'd like more than that. He smiled, looking out his window at the darkening night. If she'll give it away to Snape, who can guess who else is on her list.  
  
Crabbe and Goyle had finished their game and were getting into bed. Tiresome lot, really.  
  
"Did you see the look on Briarwood's face when I stared her down?" Draco asked. One of them grunted by way of response. "She wanted me."  
  
And perhaps someday, he'd give it to her. 


	5. You'll Never Turn

You'll Never Turn  
  
Striding through the corridors to Flitwick's classroom, Draco twisted his quill maliciously between his fingers. He'd skipped breakfast to finish the spells homework he'd not done the last night, and been late to transfiguration because of it. McGonagall had been furious when she had to repeat her announcements, and because his goons insisted on following him - and being late with him - she'd taken five points from Slytherin for it. "Muggle-loving Gryiffindor ." he muttered to himself.  
  
Thud. A black-haired Ravenclaw slammed into him, and kept going. "Hey," Draco called. Both turned to face each other; she was close to him, almost touching, threateningly; her eyes stared straight into his. "Trying to start something, Briarwood?" No response. If those black eyes could kill . "Or just trying to make me take note of you?"  
  
"You wish, Malfoy." And with that, and a swish of robes she only could have learnt from her lover, she flounced away. Well. No one turns her back on a Malfoy, pureblood or no, and Draco cast a tripping charm at her.  
  
Ophelia blocked it from behind, and never breaking stride.  
  
Flitwick was most out of sorts: though he collected their assignments, the one he gave out startled Draco and the rest of class alike.  
  
"Mastering a series of spells on your own," the professor said. "With the other sixth year class."  
  
Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw. "Better than these Gryffindor Muggle-lovers," Draco grumbled to the thug to his left, just loud enough to be heard by that mudblood Granger across the aisle.  
  
"What was that, Malfoy? An offer to be first to pick a partner?" called Weasley, Granger's entranced pureblood beagle.  
  
"An excellent notion, Mr. Malfoy." How Draco loathed being called that: it made him feel like his father was around. There was a mischievous - scratch that, a malicious glint in Flitwick's eye. "Who's your pleasure?"  
  
"Anyone but Briarwood," Draco hissed most feelingly, crossing his fingers beneath the desk.  
  
"Briarwood it is." Flitwick could hardly suppress a chuckle. "Meet her in the library immediately after classes."  
  
Draco sat down across from the Ravenclaw as hard as he could, forcing his robes to shudder violently and rustle. He sat back in the chair, his knees most haughtily apart. She looked up at him.  
  
"Oh no," she murmured. "Not you. Flitwick wouldn't ."  
  
"Flitwick did." He smiled, as much as ever he smiled. "But we're stuck with it, so we might as well get it over with. What do you want to learn to do?"  
  
She rolled her eyes and stared back down at her book. "It must be something sufficiently challenging to merit an assignment like this. But not too hard - I don't want to be down here explaining it to you all month."  
  
"What makes you think you'll be teaching me?" Draco leaned forward to look at whatever she was studying so earnestly: as it happened, her book seemed a sort of journal, filled with runes with barely dried ink. He snatched it from her and stared at the incomprehensible characters. "This is ancient magic. How did you learn it?" he demanded.  
  
She reached for it, and he pulled it out of her grasp. "I learned it a long time ago. It works well for some," she stood up for better leverage, but again Draco moved it, glaring at the page as if expecting it to explain itself. "And not for others."  
  
Ophelia drew out her wand and whispered the summoning charm. Her book flew into her hands. "Who taught it to you?" Draco asked. Belatedly, he checked his own curiosity. "Your beloved Severus?"  
  
With a squeak, her chair shoved backwards. "No: we're not doing any magic now. Not with that attitude." She wrinkled her nose in disgust. "Ugh. I'll see you tomorrow at three." With a wave of her wand, her things collected themselves into a book bag and she swept away, leaving Draco behind, alone in the library. 


	6. The Vineger to Jam

Vinegar to Jam  
  
Draco was waiting in the library when Ophelia arrived. He watched her choose two books from the Spells section before she took a sear across from him.  
  
"So what are you going to teach me, Briarwood?" Draco asked, condescendingly. "Runes?"  
  
Ophelia scoffed. "Hardly. No one knows I know them, except my mother. Not even the professors. And I intend to keep it that way," she added, with a meaningful glare. "Hi, Hermione."  
  
"Hi Ophelia," granger said as she passed by. Her eyes darkened as the lighted on Draco. "Malfoy."  
  
"How can you talk to that filthy mudblood?" Draco growled at Ophelia.  
  
"She may be Muggle born, but she's hardly filthy, Draco." His given name sounded so much less harsh with out the nasal disdain Lucius always seemed to give it. "Hermione is a credit to wizardry."  
  
"Are you a pureblood or not?" he snapped, instantly roused to defense of his ancient ideals. By Merlin, who was this girl?  
  
"I am," Ophelia stated without looking up from her research. "But as Dumbledore says, it is not our abilities that determine who we are, but our choices."  
  
"You like Dumbledore, too," Draco observed, his voice dripping with disgust.  
  
Now she looked up at him. Those black eyes were hauntingly familiar . "Of course I do: he is a vastly more than competent wizard. It's those who choose not to utilize their full potential I can't stand. I don't like that horrid gamekeeper he insists on maintaining; that uneducated dolt is a menace to the student body."  
  
They sat in silence for several minutes: Draco's thoughts were filled with approval for her view of Hagrid. She was right on that, of course, though he'd never thought of it that way before.  
  
"Hermione Granger couldn't choose her parents any more than you could choose yours. Why on earth would anyone want to be related to Muggles, anyway?" Draco's head snapped up, his green eyes blazing at the first comment, though he filed away the second. "I can't believe you buy into your father's mudblood crap. Powerful as he is, I hate him."  
  
"How dare you," Draco hissed reflexively.  
  
"I hate him because you hate him, Draco. He uses his power to abuse magic - and to push you around. And don't think Severus doesn't ever need to talk about what he knows ."  
  
"So in comes your beloved Sevvie," Draco spat, pulling himself out of the momentary reverie of those eyes and finding his dramatic persona.  
  
Ophelia leaned back in her chair as if to escape from the anger he had so suddenly found. Finding her voice, she quietly said, "What you need to understand about Severus and I -"  
  
Just then, Madame Pince, the librarian, interrupted. "If you cannot keep your discussion to academics, Mr. Malfoy, you'll need to return to your common rooms to talk."  
  
He hated being called that. But that was that.  
  
The next day was Wednesday, and the afternoon was spent pouring over book after book of spells. Though Draco found a few that seemed manageable, Ophelia repeatedly threw them out for being too simple. She needed something impressive, challenging; something unique and extraordinary.  
  
"Just pick something, Briarwood. This is getting old." Draco had surrendered his book: it was too much work to read over spell after spell, to imagine performing them and work out the logistics in his head, only to be shot down by a perfectionist Ravenclaw. She was frustrating beyond words.  
  
"Expelliarmus," she said, suddenly. "Severus suggested it to me, but he didn't elaborate." Draco was glaring at her, and parting his lips to comment. "Don't go there now. But it's complicated: big, precise movements, so it'll require a lot of practice."  
  
"The let's get started so can get done." He growled. To be silenced like that! Ophelia had raised her voice in excitement and Madame Pince was staring at them. "We'll need to go somewhere else to make sure it's a secret." No sarcasm there.  
  
"Forbidden forest." Draco didn't move. "Oh, don't be scared. I'll cast an invisibility charm if it'll make you fell better. Now come on."  
  
"It's cold out," Draco whispered.  
  
Ophelia nodded, taking his arm. "I know." With a flick of her wand, she cloaked them in darkness. No one ever touched Draco; the warmth of her hands was unexpected, like a forgotten aftereffect of a rarely used spell. Under Draco's hastily mastered warming spell, the two ran towards the forest and found a quiet clearing.  
  
As soon as Ophelia had lifted the invisibility charm from Draco, she left his side. "You're still invisible, Briarwood," he stated.  
  
"I know!" replied Ophelia's disembodied voice. A girlish giggle: harsh to ears used to the voices of Slytherin women. "Quietus!"  
  
Before he even knew what had happened, Draco was struck dumb. I couldn't even see her raise her wand! he wanted to shout, to no avail. He tried his wand, but without his voice nothing happened: he checked a pout.  
  
"Oh, don't sulk," Ophelia muttered, removing her invisibility charm. "Here I am. Sonorus. You know, you're not nearly so obnoxious when you're so completely vulnerable." She circled around him, a smile playing on her lips.  
  
"Vulnerable? Who said I was vulnerable?" Draco demanded, hardly believing his own words.  
  
"Oh," she said, allowing herself now to grin whole-heartedly. "A Malfoy is never vulnerable, is he? Your father wouldn't be."  
  
"I am not my father," Draco affirmed, assuming dueling stance. His wand, a heavy fourteen inches, echoed in the night's silence. "But I was not vulnerable."  
  
"No, you're not. So why do you buy into his rhetoric?" She drew a quill from her robes and wrote a few fiery runes on the air: they transformed into will-o-the-wisp. "Tell me one thing," she said, casting a spark at him. "A wizard born to Muggle parents is a mudblood, right?"  
  
"Yes," he said, attempting expelliarmus.  
  
It failed. "But what is Harry Potter? His mother was born to Muggles." He blocked her shot. "How can he be as pure as you or I? Your system doesn't even make sense."  
  
Caught off guard by her argument, he missed the block and lost his wand. Ophelia had gotten expelliarmus.  
  
Twenty minutes had passed since Ophelia had successfully disarmed Draco. She had taken the effects of his malformed spells - painful though they had occasionally been - though there wasn't much to do to except wait until he got the spells: if she blocked them, they wouldn't know how far off he was still, even if she did know how.  
  
"Expelliarmus!" he called. Her wand flew from her hand and landed firmly on the forest floor behind her. Grinning at her partner's success, she plucked the wand from the dark brown moss and cast it back. Draco blocked it.  
  
"How did you know how to do it?" she cried, watching the spell flutter off into the darkening sky toward the pale moon.  
  
"How did you not?" he replied, incredulously, gazing upwards as well.  
  
"Rictusempra!" rang across the forest, and Draco burst into hysterical laughter. "Runic magic takes more time than you'd think. Oh, can't you quiet down, Draco? It drains my power sometimes, and I'm not nearly as good with a wand as -"  
  
The laughter was growing on Draco's nerves, but he couldn't help himself from drowning out her words. It was making Ophelia laugh, too, that feminine giggle. She's really very pretty, he thought without really wanting to; when she's not pissed off over something. Between the peals of laughter, they could hear a wolf's howl, loud and not so very far off. "Quietus," Ophelia whispered at him.  
  
There could be no doubt that there was a werewolf out that evening. Its howl was clear as the sky above, cruelly rending the innocence of the night.  
  
"Run," Draco said, staring into Ophelia's eyes, the same black of the night, thankful for the free use of his voice.  
  
And run they did, straight back to the castle's outer walls. Draco had never been so glad to be near Hogwarts, even as an escape from his father's house.  
  
"That was scary," she whispered, her breath coming in short gasps, her fingers twined around his upper arm in an unconscious display of . fear?  
  
"I know." 


	7. Don't Dab Your Eye

Don't Dab Your Eyes  
  
All the next day, Draco was completely distracted: if his mind wasn't soaring on a quidditch broom, it was sweeping through the motions of the disarming spell. And what was worse, whenever he knew he'd completed the motions successfully in his head, he saw Ophelia's dark eyes pinching into a smile. And though he struggled to keep his mind to business, if not the particular business of the class he was attending, still it wandered down that most unlooked for path.  
  
Draco knew Snape could tell his mind wasn't on potions. He called on Draco when he knew he had not heard the question, the boy's embarrassment recompense for his jealousy.  
  
"Where's your mind?" Granger cooed mockingly across the aisle.  
  
"Malfoy's daydreaming!" Weasley teased. "Thinking about the match this weekend?"  
  
"Five points from Gryffindor for bad form, Weasley, Granger," Snape said, glaring at the two Gryffindors. "And five from Slytherin for daydreaming." At least he was equal in his punishments, Draco thought, bitterly.  
  
Of course, this was no cause for him to pay any more attention than he had been.  
  
Class passed quickly enough. Draco was grateful that his thugs and their Hufflepuff partners were having trouble learning their chosen spell - one of the spells Ophelia had thrown out - and he was spared inventing an excuse to send them away. His feet took him all too quickly to the library without his consent. Oddly enough, Ophelia was outside the door waiting for him.  
  
"We'll be in trouble if we go to the Forbidden Forest again: we're sure to get caught in the daylight," she stated without preamble. She was leaning against the wall, her glossy hair falling into and obscuring her eyes, her hips protruding from her robes. Her face was expressionless: was that a smile threatening on her lips? Could she be glad to see him?  
  
Of course she is, he reminded himself.  
  
"So where then?" he replied, leaning toward her, holding her ebony gaze with his emerald.  
  
"My room," she retorted. Startled, Draco stepped back. Had she really just said that?  
  
"Not afraid of being caught?" he murmured incredulously. She dipped her head and slipped out of Draco's invisible hold.  
  
"I'm a sixth-year Ravenclaw. Flitwick doesn't give a damn what we do." She started toward Ravenclaw tower. Over her shoulder she called, "I brook no refusals."  
  
So he followed.  
  
"Repetitio," she whispered at the tower door. Their brief walk had been silent: Draco had been forced to follow her lead - highly out of character - to exactly the right level on the shifting staircase, and now listened to the password. He must have looked puzzled. "Est mater studiorum," she explained. She had a point, of course. The doorway slid open on the Ravenclaw common room.  
  
It was hung with tapestries in Ravenclaw colors, bronze and blue, depicting men and women reading and performing complicated magic. There was a warm fire blazing in the fireplace and big blue sofas and armchairs were gathered into comfortable clumps filled with Ravenclaws chatting quietly over steaming mugs; a few neat tables were in the back of the room, where a few more of them were studying. She strode confidently through the middle of the room, smiling at one or two, and he followed her to the dormitories.  
  
Ophelia's room was on the top level. It was a comfortable room with three beds facing inwards. Everything was in varying shades of blue, from the carpeting to the bedspreads, with cornflower curtains with deep gold trim framing the window. Her roommates were nowhere to be found, he was remarkably glad.  
  
She pulled her quill from her robes: in the clear light, Draco could see that it was a silvery gray, unlike any of the quills he had used for homework assignments. She wrote on the air in fiery runes, which evaporated immediately. She sat on the edge of her bed and opened the book of spells sitting there.  
  
"I've put up a room-sealing spell, so don't worry about anyone walking in," she said without looking up.  
  
"Will it hold?" he asked, glancing around at the door and windows.  
  
She laughed. "Runic magic is more powerful, more lasting, and more discreet than other forms. I know you don't believe, but if you ever tell I know it, Draco -"  
  
"I know, I know: you'll castrate me."  
  
She nodded succinctly, and practiced the expelliarmus motions. "You can sit down." There were no chairs, so he was forced to sit on the opposite side of her bed. It made him remarkably uncomfortable. "How do you feel about the match this weekend?"  
  
"Why do you want to know?" he asked, roughly.  
  
"You seem tense," was her short reply, and they spoke no more of it.  
  
Instead, they sat in silence, reading over the dry text about the technique of disarming, her perfume, whatever it was, floating in and out of range.  
  
The dinner hour came soon enough, and they walked together into the great hall. Please don't let Snape see this, Draco thought. Who knows what he'll put into my food .  
  
Most of the other students had already gathered for dinner when Draco and Ophelia crept through the door. Just as they entered, the Malfoy owl, a huge black thing, fluttered over and lighted on Draco's shoulder, a letter in its mouth.  
  
"I'll read it later," he said. "It's from my father."  
  
"Will he be there Saturday?" she asked. He shrugged: he didn't want to think about that. "Good luck then," she whispered. "I'll be there, but I can make no promises as to who I'll be rooting for."  
  
She pushed her sable hair out of her face and smiled at him: he felt a smile in return pricking at the corners of his mouth.  
  
"Well," she said. "See you then." 


	8. Or Wonder Why

Or Wonder Why  
  
After classes on Friday, Draco headed straight to his room in Slytherin tower to change for quidditch practice. There was a dusting of snow on the cloistered yards with more fluttering down from the swiftly darkening sky like a million shooting stars. It was growing dark earlier and earlier now as winter approached: soon there would be no quidditch without artificial light at all.  
  
He pulled his cloak around him a bit tighter and plowed through the yard, snowflakes settling on his pale eyelashes. He blinked them away and nearly ran into a huge lumbering figure.  
  
"Careful there, Malfoy," Hagrid said, his deep voice sounding like thunder as it rose from his massive chest. The monster was walking a monster of his own, a beast - whatever it was - every bit as hairy as he was. And he was talking to someone: Harry Potter.  
  
"Do you really think so, Hagrid?" Harry asked, ignoring Draco and flashing one of his famously winning smiles, the kind that made students and professors alike swoon. Disgusting, really.  
  
Draco rolled his eyes and started back on his way, the soft crunching of his shoes in the snow broken by a growl. Hagrid's . thing had turned to look at Draco, its teeth bared. Draco's mind raced through spells to find one that could help him now, immobilus the only one coming to mind.  
  
He pulled his wand from his robes, but too slow! A spark cracked out in the dry winter air and the creature wimpered: Hagrid tucked his umbrella back into his coat.  
  
"Ya didn't see nothing there, Malfoy," Hagrid informed him. Of all the nerve! To threaten my life and tell me it never happened!  
  
"You just used magic, Hagrid. You don't have clearance for that kind of thing," Draco stated, reigning in his fear. He consciously forced a look of distaste back onto his face.  
  
"Don't you say a word," Potter said, stepping around Hagrid to look Draco in the eye.  
  
A Malfoy is not one to be taken lightly. His wand was still in hand, and Draco rolled it threateningly between his fingers. "Or what, Potter?"  
  
Potter drew out his wand, but was simply not fast enough. "Expelliarmus," Draco muttered, sweeping his wand through the air, his cloak and robes fluttering behind the careful movements. Potter - that Muggle-loving Gryffindor, whose mere dumb luck had meant the downfall of his father's dark lord - watched in shock as his wand flew behind him, and was instantly, utterly, helpless.  
  
"You didn't see anything, did you, Potter." Draco spun firmly around in the gentle snow, an all-out grin on his pallid face. Ophelia was right: Hagrid was a menace, and Potter a symbol of everything his father was working against.  
  
As his cloak swept through the door to the corridor as he turned a sharp corner, he hesitated in one step: what did he care whom his father hated?  
  
I hate him because you hate him, Draco: she was right on more than Hagrid, it seemed. 


	9. I've Always Told You I Was a Rover

I've Always Told You I Was A Rover  
  
Draco rose early that morning to get ready for the quidditch game. This was important: if he didn't catch the snitch today, Slytherin would never advance to play Gryffindor. He skipped the shower, since he would only get muddy, and probably beaten, at the game. Instead, he brushed his teeth and rinsed his face in the sink. He stared at himself in the mirror as he combed his hair back. Blond hair, pale skin, green eyes: he was practically the image of his father, right down to that perfect cupid's bow of a mouth. He scowled at the reflection and everything it meant.  
  
Breakfast was the same old Saturday meal. Draco sat with the same old goons, and stared at the same old teachers. The constancy was today, though, a source of comfort: just another game at Hogwarts school.  
  
"Ravenclaw'll be a cinch to beat today, Goyle," he muttered. The thug grunted back. "I know we'll move on to Gryffindor, and to the cup."  
  
He left early to arrive first at the pitch, pulling his robes up on his shoulders and smoothing his sweater down. He had always loved the feeling of quidditch gauntlets on his hands, the way they covered everything but the tips of his fingers. They made him feel like one of the figures from the tapestries, like a knight errant or a valiant warrior. They made him feel powerful and important, in a very real way.  
  
The thugs followed him to the dugout, where Draco sat for several minutes staring at the pitch, imagining the game he was about to play - about to win. Soon the rest of the team began to arrive, and Draco dismissed the goons. He didn't need their backup on the pitch, not with a Nimbus 2006 beneath him.  
  
After reviewing the plays with the team, Draco led them out to the pitch. The stands were already full of Hogwarts students of every house: teachers, parents, and staff were positioned in their respective stands. Draco wondered for a brief moment if his father was going to be there, but he saw no white blond head among the parents and so was calm. The Slytherin team was excited: Draco had spent a ludicrous amount of time over the summer putting together their plans, and he was sure that his hard work would eventually let him triumph over the Ravenclaws, smart though they were.  
  
Madame Hooch gave the signal and released the bludgers, quaffle, and snitch. The players kicked off from the ground, and Draco signaled the Slytherins into a v-formation to start out. As they passed over the centerline of the pitch, they broke their form and began pursuing their individual goals.  
  
Cho Chang, the Ravenclaw seeker and an experienced seventh year, suddenly broke with her own team's formation. Draco paused prudently to see if she had seen the snitch: a flicker of gold told him that her chase was in earnest.  
  
Any means to an end, Draco told himself, and began to follow her. He caught up to her easily, and in a rare moment of blagging, he took hold of the tail of her broom and pulled her backwards. Fortunately, Warrington had just caught the quaffle and was moving in for a goal against Ravenclaw, distracting the crowd. They came up and around, almost hovering over the centerline before the snitch shot straight up into the sky. Draco released his hold on Cho's broom and followed the ball, urging his broomstick ever faster into the morning sun.  
  
And there he lost it, for in the glare he couldn't see its glittering. He dove down at a breakneck speed, using the purely non-magical gravity to his advantage, and swung out over the Ravenclaw stands. The gasp he got was incredibly satisfying, and as he hung over their heads, seeing Cho do the same on the other side of the pitch, he stole a glance down for Ophelia.  
  
She was in the front row, and staring directly back into his eyes. Her sable hair was blowing in the wintry wind, catching in her face and partially cloaking her smile. Oh, but sure as he floated there it was a smile.  
  
A sparkle in the corner of his eye and Draco broke the moment's gaze: he regretted it even as he did it, but to let Cho grab it first because he was looking at a girl - he'd never live it down. The other seeker darted around him as if to distract and then took off, but Draco kept his eye firm.  
  
After a few loops around the pitch, it seemed that Cho had lost sight of it. A brilliant idea came to him, and he flew to the open field. Cho followed: it almost made him laugh how easily she was deceived. She should have expected nothing else from a Malfoy. He dropped the tip of his broom and sunk toward the ground, hearing her robes flutter as she followed. But Draco knew what he was doing, and pulled up just in time: Cho, on the other hand, ran hard into the grass. She shrieked, and rose from the ground shaking her wrist out. Pity it wasn't broken, he thought.  
  
"Malfoy performs a flawless Wronski defensive feint," Lee Jordan called over the loudspeakers. "The dirty bastard ."  
  
Draco laughed so hard at McGonagall's reprimand he almost forgot what he was looking for: the golden snitch shone in the easy sunlight as it flew just out of reach in his peripheral vision, and Draco followed, Cho not far behind.  
  
His fingers almost closed around it as the snitch darted hastily out of range yet again. Cho slammed into him, nearly knocking him off. Draco was surprised that Hooch didn't say a word about it, but there wasn't exactly time to complain. He held his ground, so to speak, and pursued: both their hands seemed to touch the ball at the same instant.  
  
Cho yanked at it, and Draco felt that his arm might come out of the socket, yet was he insistent, holding tight. Cho was shouting, screaming in his ear: it was quite the struggle just to maintain his broomstick.  
  
"Come on, Ravenclaw. Is that any way for a lady to speak?" he hissed at her. As if in punishment for his feint, she scratched him; she actually dug her nails into his cheek and tore the flesh. He felt a trickle of blood down his cheek, and then caught sight of the Ravenclaw keeper. As if on a possessed broomstick, he dangled from the bottom of it as it barreled straight towards their little mid-air scrap.  
  
Draco, hands still firmly around the snitch, ducked, wrenching it from Cho's fingers as her own team member crashed firmly into her and both of them went hurtling toward the ground.  
  
"Malfoy's got the golden snitch! Slytherin continues on to play Gryffindor for the House Cup," Lee called. "Though everyone know they'll lose just as badly as -"  
  
Draco didn't need to see McGonagall's reprove this time: he had caught the snitch, and that alone was cause enough to smile.  
  
Pucey and the rest of his team congratulated him with smacks on the back as they returned from the pitch. Appreciative as he was, Draco was muddy and sweaty, and even a bit bloody, so he rinsed his face in the Slytherin dugout sink. He was still grinning like an idiot in the mirror. He examined the marks Cho had left on him: blood has run backwards into his fair hair; a few scratches by his emerald eyes; and one that looked deeper than he thought it ought. He had gotten the blood and dirt off, and looked very nearly attractive, he thought. This one scratch was bothering him, though: he considered it closing it then and there.  
  
"Nice battle scar, Malfoy," Baddock called from across the room: that settled that.  
  
Broom in hand, Draco started back to the castle. He hoped only to avoid his goons, if only for a few minutes. He had won the game, had proven that he did not need their backup all the time: the last thing he wanted was their physical presence to remind him that this feeling would disappear.  
  
"Mr. Malfoy," rumbled a voice he knew all too well. Draco turned around. "Nice work," Snape said, lingering just that moment too long on that s.  
  
Draco managed a smile again, forgetting how furious he was at this man for just a moment. "Thank you, sir."  
  
The corridors were cool and empty: everyone else had gone to lunch after the game, leaving pools of melted snow everywhere, but Draco wanted a shower more than any meal. Suddenly, he heard a familiar tapping of heels on stone floors behind him.  
  
"Well done, Draco," Ophelia said. "Heading back to your room?"  
  
He stared back at her without a word. "Why do you ask?"  
  
"I'm heading to mine. Want to walk me?" She was smiling, that same smile that she had worn during the game. "Do you believe in runes now?"  
  
Draco stopped. "What does that mean?"  
  
"The broom. It was mine." Well that explained the grin.  
  
"You sabotaged your own team," he said, incredulously, as he began to catch back up with her.  
  
"It would have been too obvious if I'd helped Ravenclaw, of course," she giggled. "It was complicated to get just the right blend: I almost used a few words I'd been saving to name the runes. I thought you'd be happy, Draco."  
  
She had helped him, but it had been only a matter of time before he overpowered Cho. His anger drained away when she said his name; so much gentler than his surname. "What words?"  
  
"Laetha gael," she said, dismissively. "You're not mad at me, are you?"  
  
He shook his head, tucking his rage away. Anyone else he would have cast a good spell at, but Ophelia .  
  
Another pool of water waited for them outside the door to Ravenclaw. He should have told her sooner, but Ophelia didn't see it and slipped: he caught her with a slightly dusty hand beneath her arm.  
  
She nodded and turned to look at him.  
  
"What happened to you?" she asked, looking at the scratch on his cheek. He still had a hand on her arm from where he'd caught her.  
  
"Your seeker's a bitch," he said, jocularly.  
  
"I know." She drew out her wand and touched it to the mark. "Abracadabra."  
  
"It still stings," he whispered, moving a bit closer to her. She backed into the tower door.  
  
"I don't have any phoenix tears to give you."  
  
"Maybe yours would do the trick," he whispered, bending down to kiss her.  
  
She turned her head to evade. "My tears wouldn't satisfy you, Draco. Good night. Repetitio," she whispered, and the door opened for her and she disappeared inside.  
  
No one had ever refused him. As Draco stalked away from the Ravenclaw tower, the Grey Lady materialized over his head. "She's right, of course," she called.  
  
No. She keeps herself just for Snape. 


	10. You Mustn't Knit Your Brow

You Mustn't Knit Your Brow  
  
Though he knew he ought to be studying for the exams that were swiftly hastening nearer, Draco had sat in his room, curtain drawn, all afternoon. He'd hung his academic robes on their usual hook and was flat on his bed, staring at the ceiling. It was enchanted to look like a quidditch pitch so he could work out plays, but he'd left it on auto-run for days. Now he watched the miniature Slytherins play against the other houses, over and over again, unable to pull his eyes away even to his book of sonnets.  
  
All his thoughts were on Ophelia Briarwood, on how much he hated her in that moment. Not only had she refused him, but she had chosen . Snape instead of him. It was mortifying, and it hurt. He knew that if he left the dormitory and ran into her somewhere in the halls he would stand no chance at all of maintaining his composure. He let that look as if he'd just smelled something truly foul cover his face. It felt better to hate her. At least then he could pretend he had rejected her, and not the other way round.  
  
He had, of course, considered writing to his father to ask advice, but had dismissed the idea the instant he thought of it. All Lucius would do was tell him he was whining - again - and then reprove him for letting her slip through his fingers.  
  
Suddenly, he remembered the letter Lucius had sent him on a few days since. He had ignored it then, and to do so for any longer would only make it worse. How could he have forgotten?  
  
There was no address, no term of affection for Lucius Malfoy's only child and heir: just his name, and then the letter. He could hear his father's voice nasally intoning every syllable.  
  
"I have heard you have been spending a considerable amount of time with the youngest Briarwood. Well done; she certainly is a step up from that Parkinson girl you spoke of so often last year, if their mothers are any indication. She may not be Slytherin, but she comes from good stock, and pureblooded. Your mother is thrilled. I have taken the liberty of inviting her to this year's winter revel so that we may both get the chance to meet her."  
  
And it closed, as abruptly as it had opened. How could Lucius have done this? He must really hate me.  
  
He considered writing back and telling his father that Ophelia preferred the company of older men, but he knew that Lucius would be proud of his friend for acquiring such a youthful courtesan. There's not a wizard that went bad wasn't in Slytherin, but she'd be a good place to start.  
  
He'd slept through breakfast; he'd slept through transfiguration; and he'd just barely woken in time for spells. It was quite an effort now to keep his careful strut going as he rushed to class, goons tight behind. There were Gryffindors everywhere in the halls, it seemed, and he had to put effort into avoiding physical contact with them.  
  
Draco stepped into Flitwick's spells classroom, just barely in time. The paintings turned to look at him as he entered, though the students were too busy finding their seats. He gestured for the thugs to sit behind him - he was in no mood for their distraction - and sat next to Millicent Bulstrode, who immediately tried to flirt inanely.  
  
"Hi, Draco," she said, in her irritatingly shrill voice. "I heard your project's going very well." He glared at her out of the corner of his eye. Perhaps the thugs would have been less annoying . "In fact, Flitwick told me at breakfast that you'll be presenting today. Won't it be nice to be done with those horrid Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs?"  
  
"Sure, Millicent," he muttered, turning away. Stupid girl: she was hardly worthy of her house, or of the name of witch. Yet another brainless little girl trying to tack Malfoy on to the end of her name.  
  
Flitwick came in: Draco could hear his voice even without turning around. The professor was responded to by a voice he knew just as well: Ophelia.  
  
The little man climbed up to his podium and tapped his wand on the edge, quieting the class. Ophelia stood off to one side, trying to get Draco's attention. She had it, though he wouldn't for a moment let her know she did. "Miss Briarwood and her partner, Mr. Malfoy, have offered to present their assignment in today's class." He motioned for Draco to stand up in the front of the room. Feeling the class' eyes upon him, he obliged.  
  
"Why didn't you ask me first?" he hissed furiously at Ophelia. He didn't even want to look at her, much less have to talk to her.  
  
"I would have," she whispered back. "If you'd shown up at breakfast. Flitwick owled me last night looking for a volunteer."  
  
"At least then we'll be done with this mess," he shot at her. "And we can get things back to normal."  
  
Her black eyes darkened and she turned away from him without another word.  
  
"Expelliarmus," she shouted, spinning on her heel, the spell cracking in the air as it flew in the haste she had sent it in. Draco blocked it, feeling his wand reverberate as it absorbed the force.  
  
"Expelliarmus!" He returned the spell; she blocked it too, though not nearly so neatly.  
  
"Expelliarmus!" and she returned it. His wand flew from his hand: he spun around, his robes billowing in a brilliant show, retrieving it.  
  
"Expelliarmus!" The spell that poured from his wand was heavy, almost visible in the air. He put all of her embarrassment from the other night, all of his fury from her rejection, all of his rage at the one she preferred, into that spell, and not only did it disarm, but knocked Ophelia onto the floor. She sat there, panting and staring at him, her jet eyes filled with some unrecognizable emotion - fear, perhaps? Shock?  
  
Unarmed, without even her quill, Ophelia was vulnerable. Draco's first reaction - his first desire - the first response - the one he had learned so well so long ago from his father began to take control of him. Avada . Avada .  
  
It would be so easy, so simple, to destroy her now, and she would be punished for all the pain: those black eyes could plague him no more. Oh, what was the rest of it? Avada .  
  
Flitwick's voice, and the reverie was gone. Ophelia, trembling, gathered up her wand and faced the class: she swept away before Draco even knew what was happening, and he alone could receive the professor's praise. 


	11. You Should Have Known By Now

You Should Have Known By Now  
  
Snape had made an appointment with Draco that afternoon in class: the boy was to appear in the potions classroom immediately after classes. I'm doomed.  
  
There was not an ounce of doubt as to what exactly they were going to discuss. Draco had mistreated Snape's little darling, and now he was going to pay. He could remember watching a cruciatus curse more than once; he even remembered laughing, as his father's "friends" writhed on the floor like salted slugs. He wondered if Snape would laugh at him when he was reduced to such a state. After all, how could he not enjoy it?  
  
Draco paused in a niche in the castle wall. He could run, of course. Hop on a broomstick and try to cross the lake, and then - and then what? Go home? How could explain that to his father? Oh, yes, Dad, I was putting the moves on Snape's little girlfriend. Right. And who knew what his father would come up with in crucio's stead?  
  
There was nothing to do, then, but face his punishment, whatever it might be, like a man. Draco forced his steps to become even, forced that characteristic bounce - cocky and powerful - to overtake him. He strutted, proudly, like a Malfoy, into Snape's classroom, sweeping his cloak over one shoulder with a dramatic swish.  
  
"Mr. Malfoy," Snape said, without turning around to look the boy in the eye. This game of Snape's was getting old, but there was no point in adding to his upcoming misery by saying so. "Go into my office and wait for me there. I won't be more than a moment."  
  
Draco wrinkled his nose: waiting would only make it worse. But he obediently strode into the office and took a seat. The room was dark and dismal: it could have been taken directly from his parent's house. Stained glass in reds and blues let the small quantity of light in that there was, leaving pools of color on the huge mahogany desk and floor. There were phials of oddly colored fluid covering one wall, and row after row of books on the other. Strange animals hung in cages from the ceiling, silently staring down at him.  
  
The door opened and Draco heard his professor enter and shut the door behind him. He turned to look at the man, his dark features harsh in the slight glow form the windows.  
  
"I have heard," Snape began. "I have heard that you have been spending a considerable amount of time with the youngest Briarwood." Draco didn't reply: he only stared back in mute acceptance. "Her grandmother, my aunt has asked me to keep an especial eye on her, so if you hurt her, Mr. Malfoy, I will be hearing about it."  
  
"She's your cousin?" Draco spat. It was about the only thought his mind could grasp onto.  
  
"Yes, Mr. Malfoy. Her parents are living South Africa now and look to me for her help."  
  
"Then - then you're not - sleeping with her?"  
  
Snape made no response, his face revealing nothing. Then he broke into a snarl. "Fifteen points from Slytherin, my own house, for that impudence. I suggest you spend more time studying and less time making up stories, Mr. Malfoy."  
  
Draco needed no more of a dismissal than that: he swept out of his seat and out the door. His cloak caught slightly on the rock wall, but he kept going. He needed to get out of Snape's classroom, out of the dungeon, to someplace where he could deal with everything that had just happened - if he could figure out exactly what had just happened.  
  
"Draco?" said a familiar voice. Sitting quietly at one of the laboratory tables was Ophelia, her hair out of place but otherwise perfect. He said her name, and for a moment was convinced that he was imagining it. She stood, smoothing her black robes down around her. "I was waiting for Severus - I mean, Professor Snape."  
  
"We just finished talking," Draco said, tilting his head up so he could look down at her. "He's been most . informative." He wanted to leave, now, and not look at her anymore. Even if she wasn't - if there was nothing between Snape and her - she had still embarrassed him in that corridor. What would his father do? He started to turn, pushing his cloak out to make it fill with air as he swished away.  
  
"What did I do?" she cried, weakly. "Tell me what I did to make you so angry with me!"  
  
He turned back to her. He realized that she was no longer dressed in her academic clothes: she must have gone back to her room to change. He looked her over: her robes now were all black, a very casual set that matched her hair. "You changed."  
  
"You knocked me flat on my ass, Draco: Flitwick gave me the day off." She was almost smiling now, uncertainly. "Come on. What on earth did I do?"  
  
"Nothing." It wasn't possible that she had no idea how much she'd hurt him. Better to play her game - Malfoys always win at deceit.  
  
She sighed, frustrated, and looked at the table beside her. "I need to know so I can learn from it. Please."  
  
Well, since you asked so nicely . "Aren't you going to apologize?" Most people did when he looked at them like that, whether they'd done something or not.  
  
"No," she responded quickly. She was looking straight back at him, standing her ground, her ebony eyes locked into his. He wondered if that was how he looked just then, so hard and cold. She wasn't going to admit she'd been wrong: as far as she thought, she hadn't been.  
  
"Just let it go. I have." And as he said those words, it seemed to him that they were true. If nothing else, she had stood firm against him. She was right: her tears wouldn't satisfy him.  
  
She nodded. "Then things are back to normal?"  
  
Draco smiled at her, his half-smile that darkened his features and gave him influence. She hadn't moved yet, was still staring back at him, expecting his response. "Back to normal, yes, I suppose."  
  
"Excellent," she said. He moved away from her, heading toward the door. He tried to figure out just exactly what he was feeling: he was almost happy to have lost that argument. They were back to not knowing the other's name, neither knowing nor liking their company, so what was he feeling? Respect?  
  
He heard Snape say her name and didn't turn around. He heard her start toward the office, and didn't look back. It wasn't until he heard his name - his own given name - that he turned.  
  
"What shall I wear to the revel?" she asked him. Draco's lips parted but no sound came out.  
  
Back to normal indeed. 


	12. You'd Every Cause

You'd Every Cause  
  
"Imagine how soon this will all be yours, Draco," Lucius intoned, in his usual, heavy, arrogant voice. "When you'll be hosting these revels." Lucius rarely spoke of the inevitable day when Draco would have any power. Outside of Hogwarts, indeed, Draco had little power at all. "The war will begin, and that day may come sooner than any of us think."  
  
He kept himself from cringing: that was the thought Draco wanted least in that moment. Not the death of his father, but the beginning of the war, for that could mean but one thing. "When you come home from school at the end of the year, Draco, it will be your day: you will receive your Dark Mark, and then you may begin to formally serve the Dark Lord."  
  
Lucius said it like it was a good thing. But how could handing one's power over to another possibly be good? Emblem of purity or no, it wasn't right to subjugate his family name, or his own honor, to another. That spot on the inside of his forearm began to ache, and he rubbed it vaguely through his robes.  
  
"Now, where is this young Briarwood we've heard so much about? Why, there's the young lady, I believe." Draco had been watching her, in fact, for several moments. She'd arrived with her cousin Snape and was now trying to mingle with people she'd obviously never spoken to in all her life. Draco had been trying to avoid her until she unattached from Snape. (He hated the thought of talking to him so soon after his thorough embarrassment. Snape had made sure Draco felt it again, subtly of course, in his midterm exams.) Now, however, facing that embarrassment seemed unavoidable.  
  
"My, she is pretty. Nicely done, Draco." The boy could hardly believe that Lucius had no complaint about her: in fact, his father had been nothing but complimentary ever since Draco had some home for the holidays. "Just like a painting. She carries herself like a pureblood."  
  
Draco wished he could gather himself enough to say that she was, but his voice failed him. All he could manage was a blink of agreement.  
  
"Like a true Briarwood. Nicely done. Quite the conquest." Lucius' eyes were fixed on her. "Why don't you go and entertain your guest, Draco? Your mother and I can meet her later." Lucius gave Draco a shove with his walking stick, nearly pushing him down the stairs from the little dais they were on. Draco rounded about, one foot a step down below: his father gave a falsely apologetic sniff and waved for Draco to go forth.  
  
Draco started toward the spot where he'd last seen her, touching her elbow. She was dressed in silk robes, exactly the same ebony as her eyes, with a gentle movement like her sable hair. She looked perfect: had he not been sure she was not, Draco would have believed her to be older than a sixth- year.  
  
"Draco," she said, simply, letting the corner of her mouth twitch. She excused herself and let Draco lead her away from the main drawing room.  
  
"I've never liked big gatherings," he growled. "And my parents' friends are dull as tombs, always telling me how tall I am." He was silent then for several moments then as they walked through a corridor. "You look . very nice, Ophelia."  
  
She would never quite get over how different he looked when he did not appear to have just smelled something foul. Among his equals, he was even handsome, Ophelia thought; though that was not the first time it had passed through her head.  
  
"Thank you, Draco. And thank you for rescuing me. Camilla isn't exactly the brightest bat in the belfry, is she?" He laughed: it sounded choked and rough, almost rusty.  
  
"I have something to tell you," she muttered, taking his arm.  
  
"We'll go in the library," he replied. Down a cool corridor, he swung open a door of heavy English oak.  
  
"Oh, what a collection!" she said, looking about the round turret, filled with books higher than either of them could see. It was obviously one of the turrets, tall and narrow and round. It was dark and dusty, too, with ancient suits of armor guarding the door and a ladder that seemed to stretch into infinity. The floor had two simply chairs and a writing desk, interestingly devoid of quill and ink.  
  
"I thought you might like it. No one ever comes in here, not even my father. He prefers a potions laboratory to a room full of books." She was barely paying attention. "What do you think of the party?"  
  
She smiled, absently. "Oh, it's nice enough. I feel a bit out of place - I'm probably the only one not in Slytherin in the whole building."  
  
"The only Ravenclaw through the Malfoy door in over a century," he informed. He couldn't help but smile at her. "Quite the occasion, as Narcissa would say."  
  
Ophelia nodded. "Though I can find a few objections to the guest list," she said lightly, running a white finger through the dust on the center table. "I mean, Filch?"  
  
"The Filches are a family as old as yours or mine," Draco said, protective for no reason at all.  
  
"Yes, but Argus is a Squib," Ophelia countered, feelingly, with an edge of disgust. She almost shuddered.  
  
"How did you know about that?"  
  
"Oh, Draco, everybody knows about that." She waved her hand dismissively. "At least, anyone above his first year with half a brain. After all, what kind of wizard never uses his wand for anything?" She sighed. "Still, I can see it wise to stay on good terms with that lot. But there are others, of course. Neither the Crabbes nor Goyles have been worth the parchment their pedigrees are written on for generations. It's not the forms I mind so much as the particulars: stupider than house-elves they are - and uglier, too."  
  
Suddenly, Draco was hit with a vision: wizards married young, and all he could think of was his father's wrath when Ophelia told him that neither family was invited to the wedding. She shook his head to clear it.  
  
"Oh, but I've upset you. I'm sorry, Draco."  
  
"You'll never change the way I am," Draco sneered, into the gentle silence of his father's library.  
  
She burst into laughter, a soft laughter he had never heard from her before. "I don't want to change the way you are, Draco." His name again . how rarely he heard his own name . "Maybe the way you think, but I - I like the way you are. D'you know the Sonnets? Love is not love which alters where it alteration finds."  
  
"Or bends with the remover to remove," he finished before he thought to check himself.  
  
"Shakespeare was a mudblood, you know: both his parents were Muggles. All of his other work but one were more popular in their world than ours," she said absently as she overlooked a shelf of books.  
  
"I'll never know how The Tempest got out," he agreed.  
  
"I've always felt most comfortable around books. So much knowledge, so much collected learning ." She mounted a ladder and rose up the rungs with an effortless flick of her wrist. He let her poke about at the older works for a few minutes, until she returned with an ancient leather-bound volume. "Isn't this beautiful? I've read the latter editions of it in the Hogwarts library." Standing beside him, she leaned in to show him an illumination. He could smell the scent of her hair, she was so close. She always displayed such easy affection with him, which was something Draco was vastly unused to.  
  
"You're not afraid of me?" he asked her, willing his voice not to break.  
  
"Why would I be afraid of you? You're not a Death Eater yet."  
  
"Would you fear me if I were?"  
  
"Of course I would," she replied, her raven gaze penetrating into him. "Wouldn't you - fear yourself?"  
  
"That not all what I'd fear, Ophelia." Unconsciously, he rubbed the inside of his arm.  
  
She murmured his name - his given name - and stepped toward him. Placing her hands on the sides of her face, Ophelia kissed him.  
  
Without really meaning to, his hands found her back. He quited her chastely at first, like a child, but her hair brushed the back of his hands as she wrapped her arms around his neck: the heat of her body was new to him, her contact foreign, and he could no longer resist her touch. His first kiss was like wine after a lifetime of water, intoxicating and purifying. Fear . that was as intoxicating as anything, making his head spin. It was a feeling as new as this thing that must be . affection . A sudden vision passed through his mind of his father throwing open the door and seeing him with a Ravenclaw . but she was as pureblooded as he . what harm could there be? He kissed her again, forcing his fear of his father into the recesses of his memory.  
  
The quiet of the room was broken by a house elf. Draco pulled himself away from her and looked at it.  
  
"Master has called Mr. Draco to the hall," it muttered, fear in its eyes.  
  
"We'll be there in a minute," he growled. "And you didn't see anything."  
  
"Franny saw nothing, Mr. Draco!" it howled, disappearing. Ophelia had crumpled against him, her head on his chest. She looked up at him again as soon as it was gone: he longed to kiss her again, but he knew it was best to do as he was told. As in everything. 


	13. To Doubt Me

To Doubt Me  
  
Classes seemed to drag by until lunch: he felt like he'd been waiting for weeks to be back here at school, out of the Malfoy Mansion: here there was quidditch, here classes, here freedom. Lucius had lectured him over and over on the importance of taking over the "ancestral" role, until his ears ached from hearing those same words over and over every day. He had never been so anxious to get back to Hogwarts and trade his father's constant, watchful eye for the constant, watchful eye of Dumbledore.  
  
The goons dragged behind him like a weight now, and he could feel his shoulders slump beneath it. He had to force himself into a comfortable, predatory strut as he entered the great hall, his eyes narrow and a condescending look on his face. He and the thugs took their usual places at the Slytherin table. He studied the head table while he waited for Dumbledore to finish his "welcome back" speech: Snape gave him an approving nod as his eyes took in the teachers.  
  
When Flitwick began sipping on his characteristic cherry syrup and soda, Draco was reminded of how hungry he was. He turned his eyes back to the feast set before them, the roast duck with vegetables, and the goblets brimming with pumpkin juice and bottles of elderflower wine for after the meal. There was another thought, though, that pulled his concentration away and to the Ravenclaw table.  
  
Search though he did, there was no sable head there. He waited for a moment, glancing up and down the table, before returning to his plate. After all, though the platters refilled themselves, sitting so near Crabbe and Goyle made him nervous that they might some day be exhausted.  
  
After classes, he dragged the goons to the library. They looked apprehensive, as if they were about to cross into some foreign desert from which there was no certain return.  
  
Draco crept quietly through the tiers, winding around the bookcases and peering at every witch or wizard at the tables. One girl looked up to watch him pass: he sneered roughly at her, and she dropped her eyes back to her book with haste. The thugs were silent, seemingly awed by everything around them. He stopped in the spells section to run a finger down the spine of one of her favorite books, a translation of a very old one in his library, imagining for an instant that it shivered beneath his touch.  
  
"What?" snapped a voice he recognized, breaking his reverie. He rose up on tiptoe and squinted over the tops of the books: Weasley, Granger, and Potter. "I can't believe you still talk to her."  
  
"So she doesn't like you," Granger replied off-handedly. "Can you blame her?"  
  
"Hermione," Potter chided gently.  
  
"Anyway, that's what she said."  
  
"Malfoy?" Weasley sputtered, and for a second Draco was sure they'd seen him. He dropped down on his heels and pretended to browse, slapping Crabbe's hand away from eating a book called Moste Potente Potions. "Has a girlfriend."  
  
"That's what she said the last time I saw her, but of course that was last term."  
  
While Weasley was muttering words like 'disgusting' and 'ridiculous,' Potter spoke: "Hermione, were those her exact words?"  
  
"Yes," she replied quickly. "I think so."  
  
"Malfoy won't last a minute once this war gets started," Potter offered Weasley, trying to make it sound appealing. "Don't get so worked up over it."  
  
"It's true: anyone so hateful can't last, right, Harry? Hmph. Got a girlfriend before you, though, Ron." Draco peered over the books again just in time to see her shoot the redhead a meaningful glare.  
  
Swishing violently around the corner, grateful that his backup followed, Draco shot her a meaningful look of his own. Granger might have been a decent witch, but sub-par wizards had no business gossiping about him and Ophelia.  
  
Speaking of whom . Draco ran his fingers along his wand within his robes as he stormed through the corridors. It had been a fine affair, sure enough, but now - was it over? 


	14. It Was A Fine Affair

It Was A Fine Affair  
  
The quidditch players had been at it for nearly a day now, Draco noted: Slytherin had been playing Ravenclaw since he had gotten back to school the night before. The seekers were growing tired, enchanted as they were, since he had not allowed for relief players. Unconsciously, Draco had pulled the sleeve of his sweater up past his elbow and was rubbing the pale skin there raw. He couldn't help it, really, for every time his mind wandered to his father he could see a morsmordre burning into his mortal flesh.  
  
An explosion like floo powder ripped through the peace of Draco's room, making him sit straight up, though the goons moved not an inch. A violent green flame was blazing in the corner of his room with cool heat, and slowly beginning to resemble a figure.  
  
"Out," he growled at the thugs. "You didn't see anything." They left.  
  
"I'm not coming back to Hogwarts, Draco," she said, quietly and unintroduced.  
  
"Not coming back?" he stammered, completely taken aback, is own paradigm shifting as he heard his voice, small and confused.  
  
"I tried to tell you at the revel." She looked annoyed, as if she were defending herself. "Mother's hired private tutors for me, quietly, through the Ministry. The War's coming, or hadn't you heard?" She smiled. He loved that smile, that look of affection she gave to only him. She touched his forehead then, and her finger left a burning sensation as she formed a few runes there and recited a word or two.  
  
"What are you doing?"  
  
"A protection rune," she replied, looking into his emerald eyes. "My own Mark." She was still looking at him, as if she were trying to memorize his every feature. At least, that was what he was trying to do to her. "Before I go, I have something for you."  
  
She took the heavy stone necklace from around her neck and set it over his head. He tore his gaze away from her and examined it: it was a disc with a hole in the middle, covered in runes that must have some meaning. "What is it?"  
  
"A port key, silly." She was still smiling, though sadness was slowly replacing the joy she had expressed when she'd arrived. "In case you ever need to . escape from anything. You do remember the words I gave you?" He nodded. "Say them while it's around your neck."  
  
"But port keys are forbidden. How did you manage it?" His outward persona was gone: no point in struggling to find it again.  
  
"I told you: runic magic is much more discreet. Besides, the Ministry isn't looking for it: Voldemort uses a wand. Or didn't you know?"  
  
She took a step toward him, and, almost as if someone else were doing it, he took her into his arms and kissed her. Her breath was quick, nearly panicked, as she requited him, held him fast against her. It lasted no more than a moment, but that seemed to last forever.  
  
She pulled away; she drew out her quill again; she wrote on the air, in shimmering flame that quickly consumed her.  
  
"Well, don't leave without something of mine," he said, forcing a touch of anger to rise in himself to combat the tears. He drew from his desk drawer a bookmark containing a pressed blue flower and tossed it to her through the flame: Elysian asphodel. "Where will it take me?" he called, his voice nearly breaking with rare, unchecked emotion.  
  
"My bedroom, of course." She was grinning again, alternately at him and at the simple gift. "Use it if ever you feel you need it."  
  
And she was gone. Draco could still feel the heat of her touch on his forehead, and on his lips. Yet, strangely, he couldn't feel his sweater touching the inside of arm any longer. 


	15. Epilogue: Ophelia's Eyes

Epilogue: Ophelia's Eyes  
  
There could be no mistaking the son of Lucius Malfoy. He was dressed in traditional wizarding robes, black mostly, with emerald trim, and a heavy balaclava over his shoulders. He'd grown several inches since they'd been sixteen, and filled out considerably into a powerful looking young man. His hair was longer, perhaps to his chin, and hung softly into his eyes. His back was turned to her, but there was no doubt who he was.  
  
"Draco?" she said, and he turned to look at her with a start. She could only imagine what he must have seen when he looked at her: she hadn't grown an inch, but she'd chosen an elegant, high-necked gown and robes in the same sable satin to compliment her raven hair and eyes, made all the more severe with a lining of kohl. She wasn't even sure he'd remember her .  
  
"Ophelia," he replied, still looking startled. After a few moments, he seemed to regain some composure. "It's been a long time; how have you been?"  
  
"All right," she replied, trying to smile. He knew just as well as she how she'd been. "It's not been easy, but I'm getting along."  
  
"I was very sorry to hear," he said. "I attended the funeral, but I felt it . imprudent to linger."  
  
She nodded: he was trying, at least, to say the right things. Oh, but so much had changed . she could hardly blame him for just how much their world had changed. "I saw you, but you left before I could speak to you. I was sorry when you stopped coming," she said. "It was lonely in South Africa, cooped up in that house." She remembered coming home to her room that first time to see a slender blond poking through her drawers with his wand. She'd had to be careful that whole long period to restrict the house-elves from her room lest they go shrieking about a burglar.  
  
"After my father's death, there was much to deal with."  
  
"I know how it is. I'd heard about that, and figured that was why, but my parents would never have allowed me to go all the way to England." He was nodding regally, resembling his father all the more. His eyes caught her the way they had when they were children - pale, like an image otherworldly from some ancient romance, and framed now by fair hair. She broke from their grasp to glance playfully over his shoulders. "Where's your proverbial backup?"  
  
He broke into what seemed to be a nostalgic smile. "I broke with them the day they took their morsmordre, though we lived together another year."  
  
Ophelia smiled - she couldn't help it. "You've changed so much since we were kids."  
  
"And you not at all," he responded quickly. "Though perhaps I've not as much as you think." He was rubbing his inner arm absently. "What are you doing here?"  
  
"I'm serving on the Council," she said, lowering her eyes, suddenly embarrassed. "In honor of my parents."  
  
Had she looked up, she would have seen the horror pass through his eyes. "I see," he said stiffly. "We'd better get into the courtroom then."  
  
He turned on his heel then, in that overdramatic way she remembered as well as his voice, and started toward the doors of dark English oak. The moment she'd received the invitation to the Minister's Council for the Discovery of Dark Wizardry, she'd aparated in from South Africa to serve. She'd agonized for days, though, over judging Draco's case. It was surely unwise to judge a wizard who she had once known so familiarly.  
  
The courtroom was dark, of the same oak as the doors. The Council sat behind a bar, and Draco stood on the other side, alone in the lit portion of the room, the wands of several guards trained upon him. She took the spot with the other councilors in which she had stood for every other trial, from which she had over and over again pronounced sentences to send dark witches and wizards to Azkaban prison, and set her book, carefully marked, beneath her chair, hiding it with her robes. It was a chilling thought, but her father had been a respected member of the wizarding world, and her family name entitled her to positions of great respect and duty. So here she was, about to judge a wizard she considered to be her oldest remaining friend.  
  
"Mr. Draco Malfoy, of Malfoy Mansion, you have been brought here upon the recommendation of the council to determine your involvement in the order known as the Death Eaters. Do you understand what will ensue should you be found to have been involved?" Minister Weasley droned, repeating the ritual words for such a trial.  
  
Of course he does. Where do you think his mother is now? Rotting in Azkaban. Ophelia could only imagine what must have been going through Draco's mind as he was grilled by the son of his father's killer. He nodded nobly.  
  
"Your father was a known leader of the Death Eaters: it is also well known from the testimony heard by the members of this Council that you were raised and groomed to be his successor," Weasley said, his eyes drilling into the accused. "Do you deny it?"  
  
"I do not." Her heart was pounding for him.  
  
"It is also known that you have extensive understanding of the Dark Arts. Do you deny it?"  
  
"I do not." Shut up, Draco! He was damning himself: didn't he see?  
  
"Have you anything to say for yourself?" Dumbledore said, softly in his extreme old age.  
  
He sneered. A Malfoy was about to explain himself before a High Council: it was a terrifying, momentous occasion. A Briarwood would have died before revealing himself thus. Ophelia was aching for her one-time friend. "I have never used the Unforgivable Curses, no matter what I know of them."  
  
"There are many in Voldemort's ranks that have never used the Curses themselves, yet serve the Dark Lord willingly, Minister," Severus was saying, in his lowest, silkiest voice. Ophelia wanted to scream at her cousin: he knew better than anyone the signs of a Dark Wizard.  
  
"Very true, Severus," the Minister muttered. "Reveal your morsmordre, Malfoy."  
  
"Let the records state that the Minister of Magic has instructed the accused to show the Council his Dark Mark," said one of the aurors.  
  
Draco was baring his teeth like a wolf, and standing stock-still. How dare they tell a Malfoy to reveal his bare flesh? It was a capital insult. Had Ophelia not been completely confident in the ability of every witch and wizard in the room - and painfully aware of everything they could do to her - she would have complained then and there.  
  
"Draco," she said, very quietly. She turned her black eyes upon him, silently urging him to do as they asked. She was taking a terrible risk, and she knew it. If she were wrong, if he had taken the Mark after all - what on earth was she doing? She hadn't so much as seen him in years .  
  
Looking at her, he sniffed resentfully, and then pulled at the left sleeve of his sweater, revealing a pale forearm covered in pale flesh. No Mark.  
  
The auror Harry Potter, looking daggers at Draco, now spoke up, rancor chill in his voice. "Of course it does not burn brightly now that Voldemort is dead. This proves nothing."  
  
"But it can!" Ophelia near shouted, surprising even herself. "I know an incantation." Before anyone could object, she leapt over the dividing bar and strode over to him. This was by far the stupidest thing she had ever done.  
  
Draco, like the rest of the room, was silent, as Ophelia drew her quill from her robes. She had not touched a wand in years, and in her mind it was normal. Yet as she wrote in the air, in flaming runes, she realized that it might have seemed a bit odd to the others.  
  
"Ulchabhán," she whispered. The spot on his arm did nothing, but the letters, older than her rightful memory, glowed ever so slightly on his forehead: the protection rune.  
  
"This is ancient magic," Flitwick was saying, her own head of house. "I had no idea, Ophelia."  
  
"This decides much," Minister Weasley said, sounding disappointed. "You are free to go, Mr. Malfoy, on account of insufficient evidence to convict."  
  
"Perhaps, sir," Severus rumbled. "The Council might consider restoring to Mr. Malfoy his ancestral titles?"  
  
"He has retained the name and house of his father. What do you mean, Severus?"  
  
"I mean, Mr. Weasley, the governorship," Severus growled.  
  
The idea was met with strangely agreeable nods: and that was that.  
  
"Draco," Ophelia called across the crowded hall. She patted her cousin's arm very gently, and he nodded. Sweeping a glossy black curl out of her eyes, she strode over to Draco. "Congratulations."  
  
The corner of his mouth twitched slightly in an attempt to resist a sneer. "It was your doing, Miss Briarwood."  
  
She blushed and looked away. "Severus and I thought that, perhaps, you might want to come over for dinner and a drink . to celebrate."  
  
He smiled then, a true smile. "I would like that very much, thank you ... Ophelia." 


End file.
